The Campus Trilogy (68 page)

‘Not just doubts. They were outraged. Especially about our arrangements with the Florida Pussy Galore College. Honestly, Harry, the whole place is going to close down.’

I tried to be soothing. ‘Felix, you must calm down. It can’t really be as bad as all that,’ I said. ‘What is the Pussy Galore College?’

Felix shuddered. ‘Don’t ask! The university has a partnership with it …’

I realised that I needed to begin at the beginning. ‘Look,’ I said, ‘I don’t really understand how the partnerships work. Explain them to me.’

Felix took a deep breath. ‘It’s a very lucrative scheme of Flanagan’s. The principle is that some Mickey Mouse college goes into partnership with St Sebastian’s. They teach their own students and sometimes they send the students over to us for a term or so. In either case the college pays handsomely for the
privilege. The university monitors and examines all the work and the students get a St Sebastian’s degree at the end of it.’

‘What’s wrong with that?’ I asked.

‘Well nothing, if there were a proper system of moderation and examination in place. But, as we all know, there isn’t. But worse still, the university is given a sum of money from the Funding Council for every student it takes onto a degree course.’

‘So it’s not only the Pussy Galore College which pays for these Florida students to get their degrees in Artistic Dance, it’s also the British Funding Council. Is that right?’ I was not sure that I had fully understood.

‘Exactly,’ said Felix. ‘I don’t think the Funding Council had any idea what was going on at St Sebastian’s. They just fired off cheques whenever they were asked. Now they’ve just found out and they’re not amused. The consultants told me that they’re going to shut off all funding for the partnerships immediately. In other words, they’ll all have to be self-supporting if they exist at all.’

I tried to look on the bright side. ‘I’m sure the Pussy Galore College could afford to pay a little more to make up for the loss of Funding Council money.’

Felix was almost in tears. ‘The Pussy Galore College is only the tip of the iceberg. We’ve got scores of partners, obscure
missionary
seminaries, strange third world teacher-training
establishments
, dance and drama schools which are barely registered even in their own countries. You name it, we give it degrees. At present we receive more than three million pounds a year from the Funding Council for them all. St Sebastian’s will be crippled without that money.’

‘Surely there are other income streams coming into the
university
?’ I asked. ‘You aren’t just dependent on these rather shaky partnerships. What about all the normal resident undergraduate and post-graduate students?’

‘Yes we’ll still get money from them … Though of course we’re in trouble with the Quality Control Agency. If we can’t get our assessment procedures right, we won’t be able to give degrees to anybody. But the immediate problem is the Funding Council. If we lose the partnerships’ money, there will be a gigantic hole in the university budget. There will inevitably be job losses and redundancies and who knows what else …’

‘I’m sure some interim compromise can be sorted out,’ I tried to console him.

‘But that’s not the end of it …’ Felix could not be pacified. ‘These consultants are going to look at everything. They’re
complete
ferrets. They’re going to discover all the appalling
programmes
Flanagan set up … I know they won’t approve any of them… No one could … Nothing was done properly … Honestly, it’s a complete disaster …’

He gazed outside through the windows. The sky was grey and rain was falling in heavy drops onto the Green Court. Felix’s expression was anguished and his nose dripped. ‘Harry,’ he said, ‘you’re a senior clergyman. You know all about signs and
wonders
. Your religious tradition is based on them. There’s only one thing that will save the university now and that is a theological miracle of very substantial proportions!’

Things went quiet at the university. The Funding Council
consultants
continued to do their work, inspecting, interviewing and listening. Apparently they remained as inscrutable as ever. Meanwhile I was not having an easy time at the cathedral. The damp patch in the crypt proved to be more serious than was first thought and was going to cost a lot of money to put right.

By the Tuesday of the following week, I felt I needed a break. After yet another gloomy session with the Clerk of Works, I slipped out of the precincts and treated myself to a cup of coffee at the Mitre café. It was a charming place. Situated in a
mediaeval
building next to the Trinity Gate, it had low ceilings and heavy oak beams. The walls were decorated with delicate
watercolours
of the cathedral, all executed by the two proprietors. Cream and blue linen curtains hung at the windows and the plates and cups were all in the traditional blue willow pattern.

It had been run by Miss Betty and Miss Mildred Monkton for over twenty years. They were regarded as a St Sebastian’s
institution
with their white hair and blue overalls. I knew them quite well because they were both regular attenders at services as well as dedicated ‘Holy Dusters’ in the cathedral. They could also bake the most delicious sponge cake I have ever tasted.

I was just settling down to my cake and coffee in a comfortable corner table. I had opened my copy of
The Times
and was just
about to begin on the obituaries, when the two ladies stood before me. They were clearly distressed. ‘Could we speak to you for a moment, Provost?’ asked Miss Mildred.

There is no peace for the wicked. I put down my newspaper, stood up and pulled out a couple of chairs for them. With many fluttering apologies for disturbing me, they sat down.

‘We don’t know what to do!’ said Miss Betty. ‘We just got this letter this morning. There was no warning or anything …’

It was from Reg Blenkensop, the Canon-Treasurer of the cathedral, and was on official writing paper. It gave the sisters notice that the rent on the Mitre premises was to be increased five-fold. If this were not agreeable to the Misses Monkton, Canon Blenkensop would be grateful if they would regard the document as a notice to quit. The cathedral already had the firm offer of another tenant.

‘I don’t understand,’ I said.

Mildred took out a handkerchief and wiped her eyes. ‘I rang up Canon Blenkensop’s office this morning. His secretary told me that the offer was from McDonald’s.’

‘And who is Mr Macdonald?’ I asked

‘No, Provost. It’s not somebody called MacDonald. It’s that awful American hamburger chain. The ones that are always advertising on the television. Well of course they can afford
enormous
sums of money. So we’ve got to go … We’ve been here for more than twenty-five years.’

I was astonished. ‘But the Canon doesn’t have the power to evict you,’ I said. ‘That’s a matter that only the Chapter can rule on.’

‘That’s not what Canon Blenkensop’s secretary told us. She said that it was the Canon-Treasurer who makes these sorts of decisions. The cathedral needs a great many repairs and the Chapter can no longer let out its premises on charitable rents.’

‘Charitable rents!’ I was horrified. ‘You are not a charity. You are a successful small business paying a very fair commercial rent.’

Betty smiled damply. ‘That’s what we always thought, Provost. We’d feel dreadful if we thought we weren’t paying our way …’

‘Look,’ I said, ‘you’re members of the cathedral family. The Mitre is an important part of the town. We all know and love it.
No one can bake a victoria sponge like you.’ I looked longingly at my cake which was sitting uneaten on the plate in front of me. ‘Now you mustn’t worry,’ I continued. ‘We’re not going to have a fast-food chain next to the Trinity Gate. Revenue from rents is important. But your future is not in jeopardy. Canon Blenkensop simply doesn’t have the authority to make these sorts of
judgements
. The other Canons won’t countenance such an idea. And neither will I.’

‘But what about the rent?’ Betty lamented.

‘It may have to be raised a bit. I can’t promise that won’t
happen
. But it certainly won’t go up five-fold. The cathedral
regulations
stipulate that rents can only be increased in line with the retail price index. So it simply can’t be more than that.’

The sisters looked profoundly relieved and grateful. ‘Thank you, Provost,’ said Miss Betty. ‘You don’t know how worried we’ve been. It would break our hearts to leave St Sebastian’s, but we couldn’t afford to stay without the business.’

‘I’m going to get you a fresh cup of coffee,’ announced Miss Mildred.

The next Chapter meeting was on that Friday. I did not warn Blenkensop in advance. Instead I looked up the regulations to make sure I was on solid ground and, when I found that I was, I planned to humiliate him publicly.

In the event, it was unnecessary. I passed round copies of Blenkensop’s letters to the sisters under Any Other Business. Once he understood what was threatened, old Canon Sinclair turned white with fury. Despite his Parkinsons disease, he rose to his feet and lambasted the Canon-Treasurer. This time there was no talk of the unpleasantness of Chapter disagreements. Sinclair had known the two women since they were children. Their father had been the Chief Verger of the cathedral and their mother had arranged the flowers for more than fifty years. It was a disgrace even to contemplate evicting them, whatever the commercial advantage. And to attempt to do it under false pretences was nothing less than wicked.

It was a splendid display of righteous anger and I enjoyed every moment of it. As soon as the Chapter meeting was closed, Reg slunk away to lick his wounds.

The trial of the Priory’s errant gardener was scheduled for the next Monday morning. It was to take place in the Crown Court, a grim Victorian building located next door to Arrowsmith Teacher Training College on the other side of town. Under Sir William’s instructions, Kev had already pleaded guilty so there was not going to be a jury. My father-in-law had demanded that both Victoria and I attend. ‘The judge needs to see that the boy has the support of the Church,’ he said.

Sir William had spent the previous weekend persuading all the Home’s inmates to sign a petition for leniency. He himself was scheduled to plead mitigating circumstances. When we offered to give him a lift in from the Priory, it was curtly refused.

‘Quite unnecessary!’ said my father-in-law. ‘Matron is driving the bus!’

We parked our car in a convenient car park and waited in the entrance hall. It was a horrible place. Other young men besides Kev were also being tried that morning. There was an air of
desperate
optimism among the small family groups which were hanging around. I noticed that there was one lone, middle-aged woman sitting by herself. She had badly-dyed blonde hair and there was a pathetic shabby-smartness about her appearance. She was about the right age and she looked miserable. I had
nothing
to lose so I walked up to her. ‘Are you by any chance Kev’s mother?’ I asked.

She was startled, but I explained who I was and introduced Victoria. At that very moment, Sir William and his party came through the door. Besides Steve, the other gardener, there was Mrs Mackenzie, Mrs Germaney and old Mrs Blenkensop, as well as three other ladies I did not know. ‘Matron’s still parking the bus!’ Sir William informed us.

Last of all came Kev. He was dressed up for the occasion in a suit which was slightly too big for him. ‘Got it at Oxfam!’ announced Sir William. ‘Jolly good, don’t you think!’ Topping it, to Victoria’s amusement, was Sir William’s old school tie. It had been lent for the occasion. ‘Nice to find a good use for it,’ was Sir William’s explanation.

I presented Kev’s mother to the ladies and they all made little sympathetic noises. I noticed that it was old Mrs Blenkensop who gathered her up and insisted that she sit with the Priory group in
the public gallery. Kev was whisked off by a police officer and Sir William was conducted to the witness room. Finally, Victoria and I waited for Matron and the three of us joined the others. With so many supporters, it was quite a squash up there.

We waited with the court officials. Kev sat at the back with the policeman in the dock. He looked scared and smaller than usual. I realised that he was not very old. At half past ten the judge arrived and we all stood up. He was dressed in a black gown with a red sash. The court officials bowed and the judge took his seat.

First to speak was a representative from the police. He described the iniquity of the crime that had been committed by Kev’s friend. Quite rightly, he was already serving a prison
sentence
. He pointed out that, although it was commendable that Kev had pleaded guilty, he had a considerable criminal record. Receiving stolen goods was a serious offence and should not be treated lightly. In his opinion a custodial sentence would be the only appropriate punishment.

The ladies were horrified. Mrs Mackenzie gave a hastily
suppressed
little squeak and there was much sighing and shaking of heads. Kev’s mother wiped her eyes and Kev himself looked even smaller. I realised that he had been through all this before. The judge looked at his notes. He asked no questions.

Then Sir William was summoned. He looked grave and
determined
. Supported by his stick with its silver dormouse handle, he asked permission to make a statement. The judge bowed his
consent
.

Having explained who he was (name, title, regiment, rank, occupation and current address), he gestured towards the public gallery. ‘It is clear, Sir,’ he said, ‘that young Kevin has a great deal of support from the residents of the Priory, where he works in the capacity of gardener. And that’s because he does a jolly good job!’

There was a little murmur of assent among the ladies which was hastily hushed. ‘I took the liberty, Sir,’ continued Sir William, ‘of organising a small petition on young Kevin’s behalf. It was signed by every member of our community, residents and staff, every single one. No exceptions. Kevin is an excellent worker and a very helpful young man. We are all anxious that he should be given another chance.’